


Dreams

by satin_doll



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Eventual Smut, F/M, Molly getting stronger, Sherlock learning shit he should already know, Sherlolly - Freeform, Unresolved Sexual Tension, mollock, mystical claptrap about dreams, somewhat angsty
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-08
Updated: 2016-04-03
Packaged: 2018-04-19 16:52:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 8,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4753874
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/satin_doll/pseuds/satin_doll
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Welcome to the Dreamtime</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Dream a Little Dream...

**Author's Note:**

> All of this takes place after HLV - Moriarty has been dealt with (again - but we won't go into that at this time) and things are as calm as they ever are with these people...
> 
> I own nothing, all mistakes are mine. Thanks to Bubby for checking it over for me.

_They were underwater. Shafts of light pierced the hazy blue-green around them. She floated naked beneath him, facing upward, long hair spread in waving tendrils around her head. She smiled at him as he drifted down to her, reached up to slide her hand along his shoulder, down his arm to his hand, which she grasped and tugged, turning herself so that he glided gently against her back. She pulled his arm around her waist. The warmth of her body in contrast to the cool water aroused him, made him ache for her; he wanted to feel her skin sliding against his, to push deep into the heat inside her. He turned her, pulled her to him and kissed her roughly, felt her hair wafting around his head as his tongue searched the hot sweetness of her mouth. They drifted, pressed tightly together, legs tangled. The ache in his groin intensified unbearably..._

He woke with a groan and clutched himself, was rewarded with slick relief pulsing into his hands, wetting the sheets. His face flushed and he turned and buried his moan in the pillow. Later, in the shower, he berated himself for this brief and silly emotional reaction, even as the memory of the dream roused him again.

He avoided her for several weeks, carefully choosing times in the lab when he knew she wouldn't be there. There was no real reason to avoid her. It wasn't as if she was privy to his dreams or the temporary distress they caused him; indeed, he wouldn't have cared if she had been. Truth be told, there was a small part of him that wanted to see her, if only to prove to himself that she had no real effect on him at all. The dreams meant nothing. It was simply his mind using her to process data, to work through daily events and stresses. She was a symbol, part of his own personal dream language, much the way she represented certain data in his mind palace.

This is what he told himself. Most of the time he could make himself believe it. Most of the time, but not always.

*****

_It was raining, and cold, and she was lost. She ran through empty streets, searching desperately for something, anything, that was familiar. Everything was grey, even the rain looked grey against the pavement and the walls of the ugly buildings. There were no lights anywhere, no cars, no people - just a sinister, oily atmosphere._

_She found a doorway and pressed her back against the door, trying to get away from the rain, which seemed to be increasing in intensity. Glancing forlornly up and down the street, tears streaming down her already wet cheeks, she spied a dark figure walking towards her. She froze, panic threatening to overwhelm her. She clutched her coat tight at her throat, tried to be as still as she could. Maybe he (how did she know it was a he?) would turn down a side street or alleyway, maybe he wouldn't notice her if she scrunched herself up very small..._

_But there was something familiar about this person - the silhouette, the confident stride. She frowned, trying to squint through the rain and suddenly, in the tricky way of dreams, he was right there in front of her._

_"Oh God, how did you find me? What are you doing here?" she said, reaching out to grab the sleeve of that oh-so-familiar coat._

_"I had to give you this," he said, holding out a plain white gold ring. "Don't lose it."_

She jerked awake, unsettling Toby, who mewed indignantly then immediately curled up next to her again. She replayed the dream, her panicky heartbeat gradually slowing. Then she smiled into the dark, breathing deeply, remembering her unexpected but very welcome rescuer. I wonder if he'd really show up like that to save me, she mused, then turned on her side, hugged her pillow, and began to drift back to sleep.

Her last thought before sleep claimed her was, "I know he wouldn't."


	2. Life Is But A Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What happens when Sherlock's and Molly's dreams leak into their waking lives?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies; this took much longer than I thought it would. The laptop ate my homework...three times, in fact. But here it be, such as it is. 
> 
> As usual, I own nothing. All mistakes are mine. Thanks again to Bubby for help.

"Why do you let him treat you that way?" John's voice was tremulous with anger after Sherlock stormed out of the lab. 

"He's...it's...I..." Molly stammered. She had no answer, had never had any where Sherlock was concerned. All she had was stammering and tears welling and shaky hands. She could deal with the insults and manipulations, felt like she could fight back against those; but the anger, ah, that was something else. The anger felt like physical blows; it made her cringe, made her chest hurt, stopped her voice. She had no defense against it. 

Molly hunched her shoulders and stared down at her feet, unwilling to look at John. She tried unsuccessfully to stifle a sob.

John was livid. Sherlock's outburst surprised him. Like Molly, he was used to the verbal barbs, the sly manipulation. But this tirade had caught him off guard. He could imagine what it felt like to Molly. Sherlock's rage was terrible to experience. It didn't happen often, but when it did it was like a sudden lightning storm, loud and terrifying. Worse, John had no idea what had caused it this time.

Molly was frozen in place, trembling. John went to her and put a hand on her shoulder, but she moved away from him. At this point he doubted there was anything he could say or do that would comfort her. She finally turned and nearly ran out of the lab. John stood for a moment and stared after her, then picked up his jacket and left. He had a few choice words he needed to say to Sherlock.

*****

Molly ran down the hall to the locker room and shoved the door open. The tears wouldn't stop. She stood in front of her locker, leaned her forehead against the cool metal. She wiped her nose with her sleeve, then scrunched her face up in disgust at what she'd done, and sobbed again. Molly had only experienced Sherlock's rage peripherally before, never had it aimed directly at her. Had she come to think she was immune? That he could never be that angry with her? She couldn't remember exactly what she'd done to set him off.

She'd thought they had reached a place where they could be at peace with each other, if not exactly comfortable. 

Then the dreams had started. Some of them dark and frightening, some of them embarrassingly erotic, all of them about Sherlock. She'd found herself musing about them often during the day, wondering what was going on in her head to produce dreams like that. Distraction was not a good trait in the morgue or the lab and it was beginning to worry her. Sherlock was always in her mind, a constant mental companion, making little observations, comments here and there - most of them sarcastic. That wasn't distracting. These dreams were different; they were invasive, intruding on her work instead of helping her. Sherlock's absence lately hadn't helped. She was always wondering where he was. If she'd been a more paranoid person, she might have thought he'd been avoiding her. She was so glad to see him again tonight, even though a stray fragment of last night's dream had suddenly drifted through her mind when she did. She thought her cheeks might have been a bit pink when she smiled at him and said hello...

The warmth of the bus, the quiet murmur of voices around her was calming. She fished a damp tissue out of her coat pocket and wiped her nose again. The driver must have wondered at her red, wet face when she climbed on board. She didn't care. She tried to think about what had happened in the lab and just couldn't. Tears threatened again. She'd think about it at home. 

*****

Sherlock ran. He didn't know where, didn't care. Up this street, down that one. Anywhere to get away, to keep from thinking. A choked laugh escaped him, almost a sob. Sherlock Holmes not thinking - that was a joke. He ran hard until he was out of breath, bumping people, shoving them out of the way, oblivious to their indignant shouts. He slowed to a trot, finally to a fast walk. Still couldn't stop moving. As soon as he slowed, the thoughts came, but his body betrayed him. He couldn't run anymore. The walk would have to do. 

What had happened? He didn't know. One minute he was working quietly, John talking softly on his mobile by the door, and then...Molly. Sherlock blinked hard, his mind shying away from the image of Molly coming in, that smile on her face when she saw him. For some reason just her being there had infuriated him. He had done so well avoiding her, and then there she was, messing things up. Yes, it was completely irrational, no, she hadn't done anything to warrant his anger, yes, he felt...so stupid for the entire scene, which made him angry all over again. There was an ache behind his eyes, his throat hurt, his chest felt tight.

It was the dreams, the damned dreams. They plagued him constantly, invading his days now as well as his nights, disrupting his thoughts. Even the nights he didn't sleep, fragments would drift through his mind; concentration was nigh impossible. Dreams about touching her, doing things to her, with her. Absurd thoughts about the silky feel of the skin on her thighs, breath on his throat, soft cries against his shoulder. Feelings. All those thoughts brought feelings with them and he couldn't afford that. He had worked so hard for so many years to shut the feelings down, to keep them at bay so that he could  _think._  It was a battle that he was suddenly losing and he didn't know why.

Blowing up that way, raging at her when she bumped his arm...he knew damned well it was an accident, was really his fault. When she came into the lab, he'd actually wanted to look at her, watch her moving here and there, had even wanted to smile back at her - all of which had pissed him off. They had an uneasy friendship, but it was friendship nonetheless. At least he had thought that's what it was, until the dreams started.

And John. Sherlock couldn't go home. He knew John would be waiting for him and right now he simply didn't want to deal with John and his outrage. John was so fond of Molly. He and Mary had practically adopted Molly over the past year. Sherlock had seen the look on John's face: shock, concern, then anger, outrage. No, he'd deal with John later.

He wanted a cigarette. Surely there was a shop around here, wherever he was. He'd have a smoke and try to sort things out. He walked on.  

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The aborigines believe that the Dreamtime is a real place we go to when we sleep, where we meet all kinds of entities. Some of these entities have messages and lessons for us. Some of them are just annoying or frightening, but we have to deal with them. Sometimes we meet friends or relatives there and work things out with them. 
> 
> The Dreamtime is just as real as this flesh life we live in. Both the Dreamtime and flesh life affect each other. Molly and Sherlock are finding that out.
> 
> To be continued, hopefully sooner than later.


	3. Dream, When You're Feeling Blue...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dreams can be an escape...or a snare.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As usual, I own nothing except the mistakes. Thank you Bubby, my precious, for all your help. 
> 
> Apologies again for the (very long) delay in continuing this. Flesh life has been a bitch the past two months. Hopefully we have tamed it a bit for the time being. 
> 
> So, a short chapter to get the ball rolling again...

_The lab had become a forest. All the equipment was there, the tables, the shelves, but the walls had changed into trees and brush, the ceiling was a canopy of leaves. She could feel a soft breeze on her cheek, hear the leaves whispering overhead. There was no stress or pressure here, just peace. She heard his voice before she saw him, rumbling to himself or someone she couldn't see. A sweet welling of expectation filled her. He came striding through the brush between the trees, coat billowing behind him. When he saw her, he stopped abruptly, a slight frown wrinkling his brow._

_"Molly. Why are you here? This isn't..." He looked around the lab, puzzled; cleared his throat. "You're not supposed to be here." Almost whispering this last.  
_

_She stared him, so familiar, so distant. She was unwilling to let go of the lulling peacefulness that surrounded her; she refused to be baited or annoyed. She smiled, a welcoming smile, hoping he could feel the warmth of it. Hoping it would delay the inevitable._

_"It's lovely here. So much nicer than before." Her voice was soft, sweet, calming._

_Sherlock turned slowly, taking everything in. He faced her again, his frown gone, replaced by...was that fear? A memory: the look on his face when he had come to her that day asking for her help. There had been sadness, desperation, worry...but not fear. Never fear. Unease nibbled at her inside, trying to take hold. She damped it down, spoke softly to him again._

_"It's okay, Sherlock. Really. Come in. Everything's all right."_

_His voice sharpened as his gaze darted here and there, as if he was trying to make sense of something and failing terribly._

_"No! It isn't 'all right'. This is wrong. This is_ all wrong _! Why are you here?" He took a few steps towards her, tension in every line of his body, fists clenched at his sides._

_Molly's resolve suddenly crumbled. Tears stung her eyes. Panic began its frantic tattoo in her chest. "Please, Sherlock..." she whispered. "Please don't..."_

_He was looming over her now, reaching for her..._

Molly sat straight up in bed, clutching her blanket. Her face was wet and she trembled, the image of Sherlock - his face contorted with fear and rage as he reached out for her - filling her with terror. She clambered out of bed and ran to the lounge, turning on every light she could reach. She stood in the middle of the room, her arms crossed over her chest, and sobbed. 

  _*****_

Morning. Pale light filtering through the curtains. Molly sat on the sofa, hugging a pillow, staring at nothing. She dreaded the day. I have to go in, she thought. I have to face it. Thinking of seeing him there made her sick. She'd cried herself to sleep last night, then had that horrible dream. She was exhausted, aching, miserable. At least she wasn't still crying; she didn't have any tears left.

She slogged through the morning routine. Coffee - which didn't help. Getting dressed - nothing decent to wear, it didn't matter, nobody cared. Feeding Toby - greedy little hairpig, he didn't even rub against her leg in appreciation. She splurged on a taxi, pulled a face at the driver when he told her to have a nice day. At work, she slumped on a bench in the locker room, unable to face heading into the morgue. There was a body there for her; it could wait. It was dead, it wasn't going anywhere.

The dreams. Why was this happening to her? Molly was usually good at seeing beneath the surface with other people. She was usually good at understanding herself. Her years dealing with her feelings for Sherlock, knowing exactly what the situation was but unable to stop caring, her acceptance of it all...she knew how to come to terms with things. Usually. This time she was flummoxed. The dreams were something different. It bothered her that she had been so afraid of Sherlock in this last one. His rage at her yesterday in the lab had been...not Sherlock. He had been rude, snippy, manipulative, insulting in the past, but he had never raged at her before. Their friendship was not an easy one - no one would ever claim that friendship with Sherlock was easy - but she knew he at least valued her. She knew she was, in some way that only Sherlock could see, important to him.

And she adored him. Still. She could be angry with him, chide herself for being gullible, for letting him use her, be disgusted with some of his behavior - none of it mattered. In the end, she _knew_ him, better than anyone else, better than he knew himself, and she loved all of him.

She had never been afraid of him before. She had never dreaded seeing him, no matter what had happened between them.

_"This is wrong. This is all wrong!"_ he had said in the dream. She shivered. What did that mean?

*****

Two days lost. Forty-eight miserable hours gone, wasted in this ugly mental morass in which he seemingly was trapped. He had slept curled up in a doorway somewhere; he didn't know, didn't care where it was. This had to stop. There had to be something he could do to make it stop. The dream he'd had, when he was too tired to walk anymore, leaning against a dirty door of an abandoned building...his gut twisted. He never wanted to experience that again. 

Guilt, fear. Unknown and severely unwelcome territory to Sherlock Holmes. Useless, destructive _feelings!_ The few he allowed himself, his "attachments" - John, Mary, Mrs. Hudson, Molly, even LeStrade - were (usually) manageable. He acknowledged that he cared about them. He allowed himself to feel for them, even to take care of them to a certain extent. Emotional attachment to these few people was useful, convenient, at times enjoyable. He considered them friends. They certainly seemed to consider him one. He had so many shared experiences with John, had come to respect and even, at times, admire him. Mary was an intelligent, capable ally, a veritable font of information about all sorts of things. LeStrade, in his way, was trustworthy, supportive. And Molly...

Molly. Molly was the problem. Molly, with the sad, mismatched clothes, the stumbling, awkward speech, the social skills of a backward teenager. Molly, with the huge heart, brilliant mind, generous nature. Molly who had come through when he needed her, kept his secret so well while he was gone, the secret he wouldn't even trust John to keep. Somehow she had become entrenched in his life. He had let her in deeper than he had anyone else. She _knew_ him, in ways that no one else ever had. He had tried to discourage her. He had used her, abused her feelings for him, insulted her, humiliated her. But she was always there. Always. It sometimes irritated him, this dogged loyalty, this determination to endure anything he might throw at her.    He might have considered it weakness on her part. Instead he had come to see it as her peculiar strength. 

And then the dreams had started. Strange, often excruciatingly erotic, filled with confusing images and ridiculous situations, so vivid he had waked at times thinking they had happened - which threw him into a wretched few minutes of panic. Almost all of the dreams included Molly, but not the Molly with whom he was used to dealing. The Molly of the dreams was different, more sure of herself, more direct. There was a...solidness to Dream Molly, a sensual, fearless aspect to her that intrigued him, but could also fill him with trepidation. Last night the dream had verged on nightmare. It shouldn't have, but as dreams often did, what started out as a simple, ordinary dream had suddenly turned menacing - and Molly had been a part of that. The most unsettling aspect of it was that he had waked with the terrible sense that she had dreamed the same dream. He wasn't sure if she had been in his dream, or he had been in hers. The irrationality of that thought made him growl with frustration as he strode into 221 Baker Street and slammed the door.


	4. All I Have To Do Is Dream

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Where do you go for help when you don't believe in anything that's happening to you? Sherlock hears voices, Molly goes visiting.

Sherlock leaned back in the deep tub, allowing himself a few moments to luxuriate in the hot water. He needed to sleep, but the bath had to come first. He closed his eyes...

The image leapt into his mind immediately. He started upright, splashing water over the edge of the tub onto the floor. 

_Molly, naked in her shower, eyes closed as the water sluiced down her body, strands of long wet hair trailing over her shoulder, down to her brea..._

No! I will NOT do this! Not now! 

He pushed himself up out of the water, stepped out of the tub - nearly slipping on the wet floor - and without stopping to dry himself, stalked into the bedroom. He grabbed a dressing gown and frantically pulled it on, then furiously strode down the short hall to the kitchen. And there he stopped and glared around at everything, having no idea what to do next. His hair dripped, wetting his back and shoulders as he stood clenching his fists, taking deep breaths, staring at nothing. 

How do I stop this...this absurdity? he thought. There has to be a way! I'm not thirteen years old for God's sake, I'm not going through puberty!

Why couldn't he control this?

_Maybe you shouldn't control it, something whispered_ (in his head? Where...?) _Maybe you should give in to it, and see where it leads._

He gave a short, sharp mental bark of laughter. Oh, really? What an incredibly STUPID idea! 

Sherlock Holmes, give in to some silly...what? What exactly was it he should give in to?

_The dreams. The thoughts. The_ feelings _, answered the whispering voice._

Not bloody likely! he thought, mentally sneering at whatever or whoever or wherever that insane whisper was coming from.

He straightened his back, took another deep breath, and set about making tea.

*****

Molly leaned her head against the cool metal of her locker and closed her eyes. If anyone says one word to me, she thought, I will lose it completely. She had never had a more terrible day at work. It was all too bright, too loud, too...everything. She hurt all over. Even her hair hurt. Her mind was nothing but fog, she could barely hold her head up. Thank God for interns. 

It was too early for her to leave, but she really didn't give a damn. She was finished. She pulled out her coat and put it on, not even bothering to take off the lab coat. She grabbed her bag and trudged out the door and down the hall, out another door, into the street. The air hit her and she gasped, though it was not especially cold. A moment of indecision, and then she hailed a cab (second today, I really shouldn't...) All the way home she stared numbly out at the lights flashing by, please hurry, please hurry thrumming like a litany in her brain. 

At her door she fumbled with her keys, almost crying when she dropped her bag, nearly spilling everything on her feet. She finally made it in and then stood blankly in the lounge, while Toby mewed at her and sniffed her legs and feet studiously. 

I don't know what to do, she thought. 

After a while, she walked into the bedroom and fell across the bed, coat, shoes still on. She was asleep within a minute.

_Baker Street. She walked (floated?) up the stairs, through the open door and into the flat. There was no one in the lounge, or the kitchen. After a moment's hesitation, she walked down the hallway to the bedroom door. There she paused and listened._

_A small splash, then another. She turned and opened the door to the bath and stepped in. He was in the tub, leaning back, resting his head on the edge of the tub, eyes closed. She wanted to look at him, examine his long, lean body..._

_He suddenly opened his eyes and sat up, sloshing water on the floor. She instinctively backed up as he strode to the door into the bedroom. He didn't seem to see her. She stood in the doorway and watched (so beautiful, please be still for a minute...) as he grabbed his dressing down (the blue one, that she liked most...) and pulled it on. He strode into the kitchen and she followed. His face was turned away from her; from the tension in his back and shoulders, she knew he was angry about something (was it her? No._ _He hadn't seemed to notice her...) His wet hair was dripping (for some reason this was extremely funny to her and she giggled a little...), she could see his shoulders moving as he breathed. She slowly moved up behind him, wanting so desperately to put her hands on his back, slip her arms around his waist, slide them down...He stepped forward and grabbed the kettle, began filling it with water. She watched helplessly, feeling heat coiling in her middle, an ache in her chest..._

She opened her eyes. Her bed. She was home in bed. She thought about the dream. Not a nightmare this time, she was thankful for that. Sherlock in the bath. A smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. That was lovely. She sat up and shrugged out of her coat, kicked her shoes off, and lay back down. As she drifted off again, she wondered what he had been so angry about. Her last thought: At least it wasn't me this time.


	5. How Long Must I Dream?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock asks for help; Molly helps herself.

The knock at the door was soft. Mary wasn't sure she heard it at first. When it came again, she set down her tea mug and waddled in to answer it. She peeked through the peephole and saw a familiar head of dark curls. He was looking down at his feet. She opened the door, smiling.

"Hey, Sherlock. I didn't exp..." Mary stopped abruptly and her smile disappeared when she saw his face. She stepped aside and Sherlock swept past her into the lounge. He stopped in the middle of the room and looked around, as if he didn't know where he was or why he was there. Finally his eyes found Mary's, read the concern there. He looked down at his feet again. 

"Have a seat, Sherlock, I'll get us some tea." Mary hurried into the kitchen. _I need to call John_. Then she reconsidered. She would hear Sherlock out first and then call John. After seeing Sherlock's face, there was no way she _wasn't_ going to call John, but she didn't want to alarm him without reason.

Sherlock stood for a minute longer, then sighed and shrugged out of his coat, dropping it on a chair. He sat on the sofa, gingerly, on the edge of the cushion, and ran his hand through his tangled curls, looking as if he might bolt out the door any second. 

Mary returned with the tea tray, set it on the table in front of the sofa. She kept quiet as she poured the tea, surreptitiously stealing glances at Sherlock. He had leaned forward with elbows on knees, hands clasped in front of his mouth. His gaze was inward, riveted on something only he could see. She held out his mug; he didn't seem to notice. She finally nudged his arm with it. 

"Sherlock. Take your tea." She kept her voice mild but firm, the way she would deal with an upset child. Sherlock finally glanced at the mug and took it from her, but then set it back down on the table. With a deep sigh, he leaned back, closed his eyes and let his arms drop to his sides on the sofa cushion. Mary turned and examined his face more closely.

Dark, dark circles under puffy eyes. His face was drawn and tight, the bones seeming even more prominent than usual. His already pale skin had a bluish tint, a moist sheen in places, and he clearly had not shaved or bathed in several days. When he opened his eyes and looked at her, she was surprised to see that they were clear. Maybe a trifle bloodshot, but no dilated or pinpoint pupils, no discoloration in the sclera. Now that he was focused on her, he seemed alert enough, though his expression made her uneasy. She had never seen him look so sad, not even when he was saying goodbye to them at the airstrip before his five minute exile. Her first thought was for his family. Something must have happened...She opened her mouth to question him and Sherlock startled her by taking her hand, and holding it very tightly. 

"Mary. I need your help." His deep voice was very soft. He kept hold of her hand, a drowning man holding fast to a lifeline. 

Mary turned to face him fully, then settled herself more comfortably. She placed her other hand on top of his and pressed, trying to reassure him with touch. She nodded at him. 

"Tell me."

******

Molly stood in front of the mirror and stared at herself. The coral colored silk hugged her body, the bodice cut low enough to actually suggest cleavage. At her hips the fabric fell in soft gathers stopping just above her instep; her toes, with pastel painted toenails, peeked out of delicate strappy sandals a shade darker than the silk. The three inch heels made her seem willowy, a difficult feat at her height. She turned this way and that, loving the way the skirt of the dress flowed with her turning. She had never had anything this beautiful, or this rich. She sighed, and leaned closer to the mirror. The makeup made her skin look porcelain, with a dewy glow. Her cheeks held just a hint of color, bringing out her cheekbones. Her lips looked soft and moist, shiny with a deep pinkish coral the same shade as the dress. And her eyes! The soft brown looked richer, mysterious. Her lids were dusted with several shades ranging from a deep taupe to pearl, and lined narrowly in a dark chocolate. Long, black lashes finished the look and she couldn't keep from batting them and blinking at herself. 

But the best...Her hair was loosely piled up on top of her head, with soft wisps and tendrils pulled down around her neck and face. And tucked here and there were several tiny, perfect coral colored flowers with sparkly jeweled centers, so that she shimmered and twinkled whenever she moved her head. 

She sighed again. "I look like a fairy princess. All I need is a pair of iridescent wings and I can flap off to Neverland."

Behind her, Olivia shook her head. "Stop it. You can make fun all you want, but I'm telling you, girl, you look stunning. Truly stunning."

Molly dimpled at her friend. "Thanks. It's just so different from...how I am. I mean, how I usually am. Nobody would recognize me like this."

"I think you'd be surprised, Molls. You're not as unnoticeable as you like to think you are. I've seen the looks you get." 

Molly started to shake her head, then remembered the hairdo and stopped. "Nobody notices me, Livvy," she said. 

"You mean HE doesn't notice you." Olivia smiled to soften her words. "Molly, you can do so much better. You _deserve_ so much better."

Molly didn't answer. _You don't understand. I'd let him go in a second if I could, but I can't._ An image from her dream the night before flitted through her mind.

Olivia handed Molly a long, embroidered pashmina, in a heavier silk than her dress, and a small beaded clutch.

"Here. Richard will be along any minute." She blew a kiss at Molly as she headed out the door. "Have a glorious time and I want details tomorrow!" With a wave and a smile, she was gone. 

Molly glanced at herself one last time then wrapped herself in the soft pashmina and headed toward the door, remembering to take slow, even steps with her back straight, her butt tucked, and her head high. She wasn't going to wait for Richard to come get her at her door; she would meet him downstairs. She didn't like the awkwardness when men came to get her at the flat.

"Well, here goes nothing," she whispered to herself as she turned out the light and locked the door.


	6. So I Won't Have to Dream Alone

Mary stared at Sherlock, not sure whether she was going to laugh or cry. It all sounded so absurd, especially coming from Sherlock. But one look at his face, those normally piercing eyes so lost now and full of pain...

"I...don't quite know where to start with this, Sherlock. Are you sure I'm the one you should be talking to? I mean, aren't there people who, I don't know, deal with this sort of thing, who might know how to help?" She very gently pried her hand out of his and flexed her numb fingers. 

Sherlock looked at her for a long minute then slowly shook his head. "I can't. I just...can't talk to anyone else about this. "

"Yeah, but a professional type person maybe...? Somebody who doesn't know you..." Her voice trailed off. It wasn't any good, he would never see a doctor or a therapist. "Okay, I'll be right back, she's sitting on my bladder and I've had two cups of tea. Don't go anywhere, just stay right there, I'll only be a minute." Mary heaved herself off the couch and waddled away to the loo.

Sherlock sighed, rubbed his face with his hands. It's no use, he thought. Mary can't help. No one can help. He had never felt so lost or so isolated. Normal people had dreams and simply went on with their lives. The dreams stayed locked in their subconscious where they belonged. Normal people's dreams didn't leak out into their lives and make them miserable. They didn't bring whispers and voices with them either. He sat forward on the sofa and tried to think where to go. He was just so tired. He was tired of everything: the dreams, running away, the tricks to stay awake, avoiding Molly...hell, he was tired of being so bloody tired! Even drugs didn't help, although he tried to stay away from that solution as much as possible. After the last time, he couldn't risk it.

Mary waddled herself back into the room and tried to smile. She was worried. She hadn't called John after all. She had a feeling this was one that John would not be very useful on. But somebody had to find a way to help this poor man. He was suffering.

Mary dearly loved Sherlock. After what he had done for her and John, what he had risked - almost losing his own life for it...he had never made her feel obligated or guilty. He had accepted her, welcomed her as part of John's life without reservation. She knew he loved John, no matter how he might try to convince anyone otherwise. She also knew, without one shred of doubt, that when this baby came into the world, Sherlock would care for her and protect her with his life, would love her as if she was his. Yes, he _did_ love...he just didn't realize it...

And there she had it. It was so simple. And so obvious. She mentally smacked herself for not seeing it immediately. Her worry about him, the strangeness of what was happening, his condition - it had all blinded her to the answer flashing in a neon rainbow over his head.

Somehow she had to get Sherlock to admit to himself that he was in love with Molly. He had to accept it. Figuring out what to do about it afterward would be easy-peasy. It was digging around in his head and forcing him to see it that would be hard. He had made himself ill, was losing his brilliant-but-oh-so-stupid mind trying to deny it. She chewed her lip, thought for a minute, then made a decision. She sat next to him on the sofa, put a gentle hand on his shoulder.

"Sherlock. One question: Why Molly?" Mary watched him carefully.

Sherlock sighed deeply, dropped his head back and stared at the ceiling.

"Weren't you _listening_? I don't _know_ why Molly. If I knew that I wouldn't be here!"

"Okay, okay. Just...just go along with me here for a minute..."

Sherlock sighed again and leaned back, waved a limp hand at her.

"Go ahead."

"Molly is the...main focus of these dreams, right?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and made a noise in his throat. 

"But you've not said anything to her about it, anything at all, right? Why not?"

She expected him to protest, maybe even to get angry at this. Instead, he startled her by laughing. It wasn't a normal laugh. It was just a bit...scary. He was laughing so hard he couldn't get his breath and tears were running down his face. Mary stood up quickly and scooted into the kitchen as fast as a waddling woman could move. She grabbed a cloth and wet it with cold water, scooted quickly - sort of - back to the sofa, where Sherlock was now hiccuping and giggling and crying, rolling his head back and forth on the sofa cushion. She knelt on the sofa next to him and tossed the cold wet cloth over his face. 

Sherlock was so surprised and startled that he immediately stopped - everything. He didn't move. He didn't pull the cloth off his face. It looked like he was barely breathing. 

Mary waited. 

After a minute or so, Sherlock very, very slowly raised his hand, grasped the bottom edge of the cloth and removed it by sliding it down to his chest. No expression. He stared straight ahead, taking shallow breaths. Then he slowly wadded the cloth into a little ball and, nearly knocking Mary off the sofa, sat up quickly and threw the cloth across the room, where it smacked against the wall and dropped onto the carpet. 

Mary looked back and forth between his face and the wet splotch on the wall. She expected him to rage, to scream at her, perhaps even run out of the flat. Instead he dropped his chin to his chest and stared at the floor. Neither of them spoke for several minutes.

It was Sherlock who broke the silence. At first his voice was flat, nearly expressionless.

"Why in bloody hell...would I ever... _ever_...mention any of this to Molly? I haven't seen her in many weeks. I _avoid_ her. I seriously doubt that I'm on her list of... _friends_...that she wants to chat and giggle with about silly things like who's dating whom and last night at the pub and her new hideous jumper and oh...yes... _stupid dreams!"_

By the time he was finished, his voice had risen until the word dreams had become a shout. He raked his hands through his hair, taking deep breaths, still not looking at Mary.

Mary was not easily cowed and his shouting didn't phase her. She settled herself on the sofa, propped her chin on her hand, and watched him. 

When he didn't speak again, she said, "You don't know her at all, do you." A statement, not a question.

"I beg your pardon?" Sherlock turned his head and stared at her, frowning. "I've _known_ her for years. I've observed her in nearly every conceivable situation, listened to her horrible puns and jokes, seen her make a fool of herself over men -" here he smirked "- more times than I can count. I know what she likes to eat, what she likes to read, what she watches on telly, I know her family history, her personal history, I know what scents she favors, what her favorite color is, I know she likes to sleep on her stomach with her face buried...." He stopped suddenly. "I know what you're doing and it's not going to work. You can't brush all this off as a...an...infatuation! Molly Hooper is the last person on earth I would ever be..." He stopped again. "I expected more from you, Mary. Really." 

Mary regarded him seriously. His words said one thing...his eyes had gone wide, his hands were clenched in front of him, his breathing was quick and shallow. He stood suddenly and began pacing around the room, running one hand through his hair, the other hand on his hip. 

"Tell me what you like about her." Mary kept her tone light, neutral. Asking a simple question.

"What?" Sherlock stopped his pacing and stared at her. 

"You've been friends with her for years now, Sherlock. There's bound to be something you like about her or you wouldn't have tolerated her for this long."

"What are you on about? She's an excellent pathologist, the best. She knows me and how I work. She's...for the most part, anyway...inoffensive." 

"You just made fun of her. If she's inoffensive, as you put it, why would you do that?"

"I make fun of John all the time. And LeStrade, and Mrs. Hudson. And just about everybody else. Why would Molly be any different?"

"Why did you go to Molly for help when you needed to disappear?" Mary was just getting warmed up.

Sherlock took a deep breath, looked at nothing. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it again. He returned to the sofa and sat, hands on his knees, and was quiet for several minutes. 

"Look," he said. "Molly and I..."

He stopped again, stared in front of him. Mary could almost see his brain struggling to find the words he wanted. She felt sure he wasn't going to find them.

"Are you friends? Colleagues? I know she's useful to you Sherlock. But there has to be a real reason these dreams are about her. If they were just ordinary dreams, we could dismiss them. She could be just a symbol for something. These are not ordinary dreams, you said that."

His voice was very soft. "I haven't told you all of it."

Oh no, Mary thought, and braced herself. 

"Sometimes...sometimes I think...it feels like she's, I mean, I'm..." He stopped. Cleared his throat. Closed his eyes and started again, the words coming in a rush. "I think at times that I'm in her dreams. They don't feel like me, like my dreams, they're different somehow. She's different in them. It's like...we're dreaming the same dream but we each...I don't know, see them from our own perspective...but we're both aware of that. I don't know how to explain it. And sometimes, I think I'm not just dreaming about her, I think she's actually there." 

Mary was stunned. 

"Sherlock, if you think she's having these dreams too, you simply _have_ to ask her. You have to talk to her about them! _She's_ the one who might have the answer for you!"

Irritation began to prickle up Mary's back. I can't believe he hasn't thought of this! Then the anger took hold. "And how could you sit there, all this time, and not tell me this part of it from the very start! Honestly, Sherlock, sometimes I wonder if your brain isn't just in there backwards! And don't give me that offended look, you know damn well what I mean! And I have to pee." Mary stomped and waddled, if such a thing is possible, off to the loo again.

Sherlock groaned and flopped back on the sofa, hands limp by his sides. 

*****

Molly stood outside the door of her building and watched the taxi pull away. The night was warmish for this time of year. She wrapped her pashmina around her and stood there for a while, thinking.

Poor Richard. She had tried her best. He was a wonderful man, kind and thoughtful, very good looking. But he lacked something she couldn't define, some sort of spark or energy that she wanted. Or needed. She enjoyed the evening. The orchestra, as always was incredible, the music filled her with joy and passion. But dinner afterward...Richard had tried his best to entertain her, to compliment her, to be charming and attentive. She just couldn't respond. She had ended the evening early, letting him down - easily, she hoped - and letting him know that there wasn't going to be a future for them. She had surprised herself; a few months ago she would have let things drag on, telling herself she should at least try to be with him, or she would have blamed herself for the evening's failure.  

Molly looked up at the sky, what little she could see of it, and sighed. Maybe there's never going to be anyone for me, she thought. Maybe it will just be a lifetime of Richards - or God forbid, Jims and Toms and...Sherlocks. She frowned, remembering her remark to herself that day when Sherlock had asked her to "solve crimes" with him. 

_Maybe it's just my type._  

She hadn't ever really pursued that thought. That day had marked a turning point of some kind in their relationship. He had grown more distant, in a way a bit kinder to her, but not closer. And after Tom...she hardly saw him at all until the drugs thing and that certainly wasn't pleasant. She'd heard the whole story of what they called the Five Minute Exile and for a while had been so disappointed in him. But as usual, when he came striding into the lab or the morgue, all buzzed and intense about some case or needing her help with experiments or body parts, the disappointment had faded away and she was...his again, in that odd indefinable way. 

But what if...what if what she wanted wasn't necessarily a "sociopath" (although she knew very well that wasn't what Sherlock was) but simply someone more exciting? She kept trying out these low key men - like Tom, or even Jim when she thought he worked in IT - looking for a "normal" relationship, when what she really wanted, deep down, was something entirely different? What if, in these dreams she kept having, it wasn't Sherlock at all, but just him as a symbol of someone else? A "type"? 

Then she frowned. How many Sherlocks could there be in this world, at least within her reach? Not many. Probably...only one. And she was back where she started.

She was giving herself a headache. It's too late to think about things like this. She unlocked the door and went in, deciding that some late night telly with a big bowl of ice cream in her favorite jammies was the best thing right now. She loved her new dress and had vowed to pay more attention to her clothes and such, but for right now...it was ratty slippers, faded pajamas, ponytail and ice cream. She'd think about everything tomorrow.

_*****_

_They were standing on a flat plain that seemed to_ _go on forever. The sky was silver streaked over with dark grey, purples and oranges and deep pinks. The ground seemed to be a sort of fine black gravel. The air was still, not even a hint of a breeze. There were no sounds. There were no hills or swells in the landscape, just that black plain stretching on and on. Sherlock stood there in front of her in his coat, silent, unreadable. She was wearing some sort of gauzy diaphanous caftan-like dress. Her feet were bare, her hair loose around her shoulders. At first she just looked around, unsure if she should say something to him or just be quiet. Then he moved, slowly taking off his gloves and pushing them into the coat pockets. He pulled the ever-present scarf from around his neck and simply dropped it at his feet. She was shocked at that; she couldn't imagine him doing such a thing anywhere else. Then he took one step forward, reached toward her and trailed his fingers through her hair. She shivered, a pleasure shiver. She opened her mouth to speak and he put a finger to his lips to shush her. "They're listening," he mouthed at her._

_"Who?" she mouthed back._

_A small brief shake of his head was the only answer._

_She turned her head and looked over her shoulder, to one side and then the other. She couldn't see anyone. Everything was the same as it was before._

_He was still looking at her with that blank unreadable expression. Then she felt a hand slide down her arm. The hair on the back of her neck stood up, goosebumps rose over her entire body. She hugged herself, turned in a circle - nothing. She faced Sherlock, frightened, her eyes wide, biting her lower lip. His expression had changed. He was frowning now, looking angry. He stepped forward and reached for her, putting his arms around her and pulling her close, holding her tightly while he pressed his cheek against the side of her head. She slipped her arms around him under his coat._

_His voice was just a breath against her ear. "Be very still and don't let go of me." She tightened her hold._

_When the hands came again, there were more of them and they didn't only touch this time. They were grasping at her, pulling, trying to move her away from Sherlock. She held tighter and the hands became more insistent, now reaching under the coat and trying to pry her hands loose. Sherlock held her tighter, murmuring in her ear over and over, "Don't let go, don't let go..." but the hands were very strong and she was beginning to lose her grip. Worse, it seemed the hands were now working at Sherlock, trying to loosen his embrace also. There was still no sound but his voice, rising in pitch and getting louder as the hands pried and pulled at them, trying to separate them. She was crying now, desperate as she felt them coming apart. She still couldn't see anything; whatever was attacking them was invisible. Sherlock was shouting now, "No! No, leave her alone! Stop it! NO!" and she felt herself losing her grip on him, being pulled backwards. He grabbed at her trying to find a hold, but the hands pushed him back hard as they pulled her away. Soon they were separated and Molly was screaming, reaching for him. Something held his arms to his sides, keeping him rooted there, but she was pulled back and back and then suddenly up, her feet leaving the ground. She was being carried away, up and up, faster and faster, screaming his name..._

She jerked awake, a scream in her throat. She turned on the light by the bed and swung her legs over the side, hugging herself and rocking back and forth, crying. She couldn't rid herself of that horrible feeling, being pried away from Sherlock by those horrible invisible hands, being carried away in the air. She stood and pulled on her robe, went into the kitchen and filled a kettle. Her hands were shaking. She was terrified that something had happened to him and she grabbed her phone...Toby mewed and rubbed her leg, begging for a treat. She looked at her phone, then put it back on the table. _It was just a dream._

It had been a while since she had had a nightmare. The dreams had settled into a pattern of simply being odd or extremely realistic or embarrassingly erotic. The kettle whistled and she fixed herself a mug of tea, her hands still unsteady. This dream was unlike any others that she had had, even the nightmares. She could still feel those horrible hands, hear Sherlock screaming her name, see him there on the ground, helpless, while she rose up in the air...

She shivered, drank some tea. It was a good hour before she felt she could try and sleep again. She left the light on beside the bed and didn't fall asleep for quite a while. 

**Author's Note:**

> Always pay attention to your dreams. They can lead you to some interesting places.
> 
> To be continued.


End file.
